


Twenty one guns

by ShippyAngel



Category: CSI: NY
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippyAngel/pseuds/ShippyAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his darkest hour, she was there for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty one guns

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I mean no profits with this story. The show and its characters belong to their owners.
> 
> A/N: This story takes place in 2002.
> 
> Based in the song "Twenty one guns", by Green Day.

Stella Bonasera stands at the bottom of Mac Taylor's apartment building stairs, holding the groceries she bough for him, knowing him enough to assert that he hasn't eaten for awhile.

She climbs the steps until she reaches his front door and she knocks at it softly, mustering up a bit of strength among her insecurity. She knocks twice. Three times. Nothing. She doesn't hear his footsteps, nor the grindy noise of his wooden floor, waiting for him to open up the door, which he doesn't. But her somehow infallible intution tells her he's there, so she tries to open his door by herself, finding it surprisingly unlocked.

Immediately, she feels the cold, dropping the bags as soon as she spots him leaning on the back of his couch, as if his shoulders were supporting the weight of the whole world.

She takes a couple of steps and she realizes, without a trace of doubt, that the damage was indeed already done: he isn't the same man anymore and it breaks her heart to see him like this.

She contemplates the amount of things that she considered saying to him while driving to his place. Things in the line of 'You'll stop blaming yourself. You'll no longer think of the trauma and you'll look around you. You'll notice the world again, other women. You'll stop reframing the story and then you'll accept that there was nothing you could have done'. She wants to tell him these words, she really does, but it wouldn't be fair, because she wants to believe them herself first. She wants to tell him that his pain will be over eventually. But those answers she doesn't have.

He holds a bottle of whiskey with his left hand, raising it to his lips and taking a huge gulp that he swallows without a cerimony.

He has a dirty appearance, she can tell. His clothes are all wrinkled, his hair is in the need of a good wash, his face is unshaven in a way that looks like it has been 3 full days without a razor. He has dark bags under his eyes and the knot of his tie is halfway down his chest.

"Mac," she calls out, but he continues miserably staring at the picture held by his right hand. "Mac?" she tries again but he doesn't say anything. ' _Maybe he can't hear me'_ , she thinks, ' _Or maybe he's just trying to push me away, like he's been doing with everyone lately'_.

She approaches him close enough to touch his arm but before she can succeed, he shakes his head, without looking at her. "No." That's all he says.

He senses her confusion and adds in a hoarse voice "I don't wanna talk." She nods her head, even though he's not looking at her. She's just trying to step into his shoes, simply because he's here, breaking right in front of her.

Analysing him, she can see the pain in his eyes, the irritation. And something else, far more difficult to define. So she explains herself with a soothing voice, "We don't have to talk."

She gets up and starts to put the vegetables, a box of milk and a bottle of orange juice in his fridge, noticing that it's completely empty, as she thought it would be, except for a box of Chinese take-out that she bets it's been there for days. She puts the bread on his table and goes back to living room, as he remains exactly where and how she left him. She stands by the window and she feels uneasy, when all this man is asking for is to be left alone.

He is a prisioner of his own purgatory. He feels his chest burning, as he realizes the loss of the only sense that life has given to him so far. His previous certainties disapeared when the Twin Towers fell and there is nothing but the memories of his sunshine days spent with Claire Conrad Taylor. Now there's a shadow in his heart, stuck in an apartment that has been the scenery of so many good moments shared with his wife, now dead. He's hurting because he said "I love you" for the very last time, without knowing that it would never be said to her again because she wouldn't be there to listen anymore.

"Leave", he finally demands, as though giving orders to his subordinate, as the Marine that he once was; the Marine that somehow he always will be. Shutting her eyes, she draws a deep breath and straightens her posture, standing stock-still, staring right at him without feeling threatened by his difficult mood. "No" she says.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" he asks, uncompromisingly. "Am I messing your job, is that it? In positive case, I'll ask for a transfer. Consider it done." He takes another gulp of the whiskey. "Now go."

She tries to remain calm, at least on the surface, as she is trying to gauge the true feelings behind his defense mechanism. "You may try to hurt me, Mac, but I'm still not leaving."

He challenges her, nonchalantly, seemingly uncaring, as he finally look at her in the eye. Her heart starts beating more uncontrollably in her chest at the realization of how angry he seems. Yes, she can really see his fury seething through his eyes as she knees next to him again and he flinches in response.

"Stop it!" he growls, grabbing her by the shoulders. "I know what you're trying to do." he digs his fingers on her arms, nearly leaving marks on her skin, but she does nothing in answer to his attack. "It won't work." he states sharply, the current closeness going against the space he so aften asks from people, especially these days. "Get out." he tells her once again, so closely that she can feel the inedible smell of alcohol on his breath.

"Don't shut me out, Mac." she tries, knowing he's too proud to let someone see him this down, touching him, only to have him letting go on his grip.

"YOU DON'T KNOW HOW IT FEELS TO LOSE SOMETHING LIKE THAT!" he yells, justifying himself, and Stella shivers at the frightening look in his eye.

"No, Mac, I don't." she answers in a voice filled with patience "I don't even know how it feels TO HAVE something like that." her tone resembles bitterness now.

"Why are you here?" he inquires, in the almost same way he interrogates perps. He's panting loudly as he looks into her eye ferociously.

"I'm here because I care." She confesses and he snorts, not believing or accepting her words, but she goes on anyway. "I'm here because you're practically running out the doors as soon as people try to reach for you." she tells him, her voice filled with honesty and concern. "People are uneasy around you, Mac, they can't seem to recognize you anymore and you just keep avoiding everyone."

"So fucking what?!" he demands and she shivers, not being used to hearing him utter these words. "What am I to do, uh?" he's sitting now, his hands bursting in the air. "Why don't you tell me, Miss I-Can-Fix-Anything Bonasera?"

"Will you just drop the 'tough guy' mask for a second?" she blows and, sensing the change in her mood, he doesn't yell back, just keeps his eyes closed, with prudence. "It's okay to suffer for her and badly, but you were not the only one to lose her! Stop feeling sorry for yourself for a moment, will you?" she dares him, unbeatable, as he stays immobile, her words hurting her more than hurting him, she thinks. But deep down, she knows that somebody has to confront him, otherwise he's only going to drown in his own sorrow. "It's been a year, Mac. I'm not saying it's supposed to be easy, I'm saying it's time for you to look at life in the face."

He exhales the breath he's been holding and she finds herself eye to eye with him. "I'm saying that when you're ready to try it, you won't be alone. No matter how hard you try it, Mac, you won't be alone." He wants to reply, but his words die on his lips when he feels his throat constrict as tears sting his eyes. She dares to lightly touch the hand that's holding the bottle and she declares "This tough soldier act only makes it harder, you know."

Stella watches as he drops the bottle to caress the picture he's holding with both hands in such an intimate way that she suddenly feels like an intruder. She takes the opportunity to put the bottle out of his reach, judging that he's had enough. His hands are void, tracing the outlines of Claire's face on that picture, as if really touching her: the light-brown straight hair, those baby blues eyes, the pure smile, the pink shirt that matched so perfectly with her pale face, those thin lips, her small and so feminine nose. "Babe", he says so low, evoking her, as though the picture (and the picture alone) can listen to him.

He's half lying, half sitting on the floor, and Stella is sure his bones will hurt later, but doubts he will even notices it. He's silent, in trance. His clock holds 1 am and her heart aches because everything seems so small in comparison to the greatest truth that was revealed to him. She decides that wether she leaves him on his own or she'll be taken down with him. She chooses the later, not even considering the former.

"Breakdown, Mac" she digs, her hazel eyes full of worry, opening her arms towards him, caressing his muscled arms. "It's okay to breakdown, you know."

He can't stop his face from tilting automatically into the warm skin of where her shoulder meets her neck. He holds on to her, a little hesitantly at first. But stronger later. "You're not under those bricks with her." she whispers, reffering to Ground Zero, saying without words that he's alive, even though his wife is not anymore. So when Mac sinks his fingers on her hips, answering "Then why do I feel like I am?", Stella feels herself losing all the reason she has left, at the strong scent of his sweat, as she feels him breathing hot and damp against her skin, and she knows that there's no turning back now. "You're here, alive and real". She's offering the desperate benediction that he needs so badly but can't seem to know how to ask for. "Can you feel it, Mac?"

He starts to cry and she clutches the back of his neck, her fingers threading in his hair and she hears her own voice make a compelling sound. She knows with sudden clarity that she can't let go of him. Can't possibly release him, not now, not ever. He groans "This is so fucking unfair!" and he grabs her shirt as if grabing his wife's killers with such a strength that it hurts her bones, but she won't complain. "Why didn't He take me?!" he asks but she has no answer, other than hold him tighter.

In the silence of his so private and now (who would have thought?) messy apartment, that used to be a home, there is nothing but the two of them and the quiet sound of their ragged breathing; the racing of their hearts.

He lets out an enormous sigh, letting go of her body. He watches her, waiting for any sign of hesitation from her, as though opening up might have scared her. But he won't see it. There is none. So he closes his eyes for a moment and starts to speak in a husky voice.

"I remember the night before the attacks." he looks around, as if replaying the scene in his mind "We were arguing for some stupid reason and she went to the bedroom, fumming. I obviously went after her because I was never able to concentrate on doing anything, knowing she was mad at me." He's focusing, trying to remember all the details. "I found her standing by the window, looking outside, and I put my arms around her and I kissed her neck on her favorite stop." he smiles to himself, using a finger to indicate where it was. "She always lost the ability to think when I kissed her there."

"Always?" Stella plays along, a chuckle placed on the corner of her mouth, trying to lift the energy in the room.

"Always." he smiles smugly to her but get serious soon after. "Then she turned in my arms and she gave me this smile... a smile I had never seen on her lips before, as though she knew what was going to happen the following day and as if she didn't mind it, you know?" he ponders "And for the first time since I met Claire, I didn't know how to read her, but I thought we would have plenty of time to figuring each other out, so I just went to bed with her."

"What were fighting about?" Stella questions, getting herself in a more comfortable position besides him, trying to get him to open up further.

"Do you know what a Twenty One Gun salute is?"

Stella takes a few seconds to consider an answer and immediatly says, with a deep frown on her forehead "Mmm yeah I think we learned it in the Academy", she tries to relate one thing to another but gives it up and decides to let him to elighten. "Is it sort of like a standard procedure to give honor to deceased veterans?"

He nods his head, "When officers are killed in the line of duty, the Twenty One Gun salute is played at their funerals." Mac breathes in and out. "That was the one thing that always frightened Claire, since we started dating. When I was a Marine and then when I joined the NYPD, it was one of the things that really got to her. So when I went on a dangerous mission, she had the same nightmare: she was at my funeral, listening to the Twenty One Gun salute. And everytime I came back home, no matter how late it was, she was sitting on the couch, waiting for me, with her eyes wide open. And at the night before the attacks we argued because she found out the case I was working with and she was mad at me for not telling her."

Stella rolls her eyes. "You were trying not to worry her by not telling her."

"Yeah, well, you should have tried to convince her of that." Mac smiles but the look in his eyes is still filled with sorrow. "You know what's the irony in it all?" he questions but she doesn't say a word, just questions back with a look in her eyes. "She was so worried I would die first, but..." he leans with his elbows on his thighs, and sinks his thumbs on his eyeballs, as if easing the pain. "I didn't." He sounds belligerent, as though this is all his fault, his unforgivable sin.

"When she was officially reported as one of the victims," he mumbles, changing the subject as if they weren't talking about something else just a second ago. "I kept looking at the images for days, hoping I'd find her walking out of the ashes, or that the datas somehow were mistaken, no matter how slim the odds were." His blue eyes look grew now and Stella can't help but feel his pain "For once in my life", he says, "I didn't want to believe the evidences."

Stella lets him takes his time because... he is finally opening up to her. So she just sits there, waiting for him, listening to him.

"And now I keep thinking of those desperate people jumping out of the Towers, trying to save themselves at any cost. I think of the ones running down the streets, with that lost stare upon their faces, trying to get as distant as possible. As an American citizen, that hurts me." he breathes deeper "I keep replaying that scene, when the planes crashed against the Towers and them falling afterwards. I think of how a group of terrorists can kill so many innocent lives at once, as though exterminating ants. As an officer, that's enough to send me over the edge." he explains "But as a husband, when I think about..." he stops, gathering his strenght while she's left with watching his eyes drown in tears that don't fall, that never fall. Tears that are streaming down her face now... "When I think about Claire in one of those Towers as they were hit and when I think about my wife scared and utterly alone, the fact that I wasn't there to protect her is enough to..." he bites his lips, searching for words "Break me apart." his words are chocking on his throat "When I think about her there, I want to find who did this shit" he closes his fists as he says it, his veins now exposed on his wrists, about to pull themselves out "and I want to take their hearts out of their chests with my own hands."

His gaze gets distant again. "Mac" she calls out, trying not to let him hide behind his walls once more. So her hands come to grasp his cheeks to keep him looking straight at her. "Mac," she repeats, this time successfully, because he finally looks back at her. She's not ready to face the look of desperation coming from this man tormented by a relationship that fell apart in a matter of seconds and it makes her ask herself if she has the right to go there, expecting him to choose admitance over anger.

When Mac buries his face on Stella's neck, this time, it's not to hide, but to expose himself completely. She doesn't want to cry, not like this, not in front of him. Not now. But she can't help it... Their bodies are shaking as one, as if their pain were the same.

So she waits, her face hidden in his hair, and she listens to his breathing. But he doesn't let go of her just yet, he doesn't push her away anymore. She doesn't know how exactly but she got in between his walls through a crack and it feels so good to finally see the real him, the man behind the hero.

"Just let it out." she says as he buries his nose in her curls and breathes deeply, absently rubbing his back with one hand, stating "I won't let go of you." while thinking 'I'll  _never_  let go of you".

All he feels is the comfort coming from her and the temporary abandon of the loss he has experienced after 9/11. There, in her arms, he's whole again, even if just for a moment.

"Grief for her, Mac." she says, with a fond exasperation as they part a few centimeters to keep their gazes locked and their hands clinging like a vice. "Miss her. But be proud of her." a single tear escapes from his burning blue eyes, now slightly redish on the eyeball, and she finishes what she came here for, feeling the stubble on his face trickling her fingers. "Make her justice. Don't let her death be in vain."

They hold each other for the third time tonight, only this time they don't let go for hours. Mac is falling asleep when he whispers "I don't deserve that". Stella holds him stronger, not quite catching his words' meaning, but thinking that he deserves so much more. Whatever it was, he deserved the best of it. And when she feels his body relax fully on her arms, she gets up, putting him carefully on the ground.

They finally let go.

She walks towards his kitchen, decided to make him some ice-tea that she leaves in his frigde and she cooks a soup that she leaves in the oven, hoping that he'll wake up starving and with strengh enough to have some supper. Then, she goes to his bedroom and she manages to find a bright new towell, that she leaves on his couch, next to him, besides the razor she brought, along with a note in which she wrote ' _Use me_ '. She would shower him and shave his face herself, but she thinks she's gone too far already, doubting that would make him feel better, understading his need to take care of himself. After that, she cleans his house as fast but as efficient as she can, going to check, every once in awhile, if he's still sleeping, feeling her heart shrink at how absolutely lost he looks, but hoping inside that this night that they shared might bring him some change, for it has changed a lot for her – while holding him is her arms, she felt like she finally belonged.

Stella wraps herself in her jacket as she walks over to his window, opening it widely, letting the sun come in to light up his room. She faces the clock that condemns 6 am, wondering where he would go from here, where she would go, what would happen next time they meet. Things she can't answer still.

As she leaves, she thinks 'I did what I had to do', justifying herself for her own conciousness. Yet, she knows inside that what she did was something far beyond obligation, something much, much personal and deeper. She's not quite fully aware of the extention of her feelings as to why she came to him when everybody else was too scared to do it, when they only know each other for 3 years, working in the same division. She will be, eventually, years from now. He's on a precipice and she wonders how the hell was he to be responsible for all that has happened? She understands what he doesn't. He's on a precipice and what she doesn't understand yet is that she's drawn by that, by him. She will, eventually, when she finds out that by saving him, she saved herself.

And as he watches her leave, he throws an arm over his face, not quite ready to face the world just yet. He doesn't understand it, either, he is blinded by his own pain to aknowledge it, but since that very moment, she became the smallest glimpse of sunshine that was about to brighten up his life. He doesn't know but all the anger and the guilt that he feels, all the pain that he holds within him, will be forgotten for the remainder of this evening. He will eventually. And the Twenty-One Gun salute he forced himself to play for his suddenly gone wife for so many years will be over, when he finds himself another way to live and to love, with the woman who saved his life tonight.


End file.
